


A Much Greater Hunger

by JewelQueen



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Creature Stiles, Creature Transformations, Kidnapping, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Oblivious Scott, POV Peter Hale, Post-Nogitsune, Post-Season/Series 03, Starvation, Torture, ambiguous timeline, mentions of cannibalism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 20:45:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12328560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JewelQueen/pseuds/JewelQueen
Summary: A few quick notes:I have no idea what happened after the Deadpool and even that I kinda snoozed on so this is only canon-compliant up to Season 3B, and then I just kinda play around with the characters as I know them after that (aka Dread Doctors are the bad guys here and we'll see about Theo and the other new additions).There will be time-skips throughout the fic focusing mainly on Peter and Stiles' time together in captivity and their time after they escape (and mostly everyone's reaction to them).  Also, Peter/Stiles is mostly suggestive and their relationship is non-sexual and although I consider them of age, it is still close to underage to be iffy and I will be exploring their relationship a lot so...Eventually, there will be some potentially graphic depictions of cannibalism/torture (which will be forewarned) but if that squicks you, this might not be the fic for you.





	1. Promises, Promises

**Author's Note:**

> A few quick notes:
> 
> I have no idea what happened after the Deadpool and even that I kinda snoozed on so this is only canon-compliant up to Season 3B, and then I just kinda play around with the characters as I know them after that (aka Dread Doctors are the bad guys here and we'll see about Theo and the other new additions).
> 
> There will be time-skips throughout the fic focusing mainly on Peter and Stiles' time together in captivity and their time after they escape (and mostly everyone's reaction to them). Also, Peter/Stiles is mostly suggestive and their relationship is non-sexual and although I consider them of age, it is still close to underage to be iffy and I will be exploring their relationship a lot so...
> 
> Eventually, there will be some potentially graphic depictions of cannibalism/torture (which will be forewarned) but if that squicks you, this might not be the fic for you.

**"Being unwanted, unloved, uncared for, forgotten by everybody, I think that is a much greater hunger, a much greater poverty than the person who has nothing to eat." -- Mother Teresa**

He can feel the echo of misery and pain as if it belonged to him, and in some ways it does. He knows these feelings originate in Stiles but after everything they’ve been through, the way his mind instinctively called it an echo, the truth of the matter is that he’s dying from his own slow suffering.

He doesn’t like to think about it, how every day he has gotten weaker, his senses more dulled until he’s no better than a human, how everything around him has faded into grey except for the ache in his gut, the clawing, aching, misery and need and pain--well, it’s enough to drive a wolf insane. Especially this wolf.

“Where is he?” he tries desperately. It’s a move he has no hope of succeeding, not where there is no sympathy or even discomfort among the blank faces surrounding him. He is so weak he cannot even bring his claws out to the surface, to jerk himself free from their trappings. He inspires nothing but pity, and these people whose faces swirl and blend before his eyes don’t even care enough about him to entertain the thought of how pitiful he is; they are so full of determination that there is no room for anything else even when there should be.

“Please,” he tries again, slumping as even that much depletes what little energy he has left. Time is slipping away from him, from them both. “ _Please_ , he needs me. _Stiles_ needs me.”

A deus ex machina saves him with the screech of the heavy door being pushed open--he’d laugh at the absurdity of the situation if he could find it within himself to care. But it’s Stiles’s silhouette straining in the doorway and suddenly the air feels electric and colours bleed back into the world and his eyes flash and his claws pop and the rope burns when he tears it like paper because it’s Stiles and Stiles needs him.

He has no memory of what happens next, all he knows is that he was there, on the far side of the room bound and trapped, and now he is here, holding Stiles up and touching him everywhere skin can be found. His poor boy is trembling in his arms, so very weakly returning desperate touches, it makes rage coil in his stomach. How dare they hurt him out of their misplaced sense of protection, these idiots who don’t understand _anything_ , who couldn’t be bothered to understand because it was--

“Peter,” Stiles breathes and his focus, his entire body, snaps to attention on Stiles, letting everything else fade into inconsequential noise. “I’m so _hungry_.”

He feels the smirk curl his lips--but softly, because this is Stiles--and presses a kiss to his forehead. “I know, sweetheart, and I’m going to make it all better, I promise.”

~*~*~

It was obvious why they were taken. The two weak links in the Beacon Hills pack, the abominations only a misstep or two away from being culled for good if they haven’t already. They were the most interesting thing to happen to Beacon Hills in its recent history; the two major catalysts for putting the spotlight on the town through endless revenge-seeking and accidental possession. Not quite equal in motive and intention, but the devastation their minds and bodies wrought on this town were very similar. Plus they had other things in common: they were the one who should have died and the one who should have stayed dead, the human with a little something more and the wolf with a little something less. In actuality, they make quite a good pair.

So, the real question that remains is what do the Doctors have planned for them? But that, too, became obvious soon enough.

“Water,” Stiles croaked suddenly, lifting his head off his knees and ceasing his rocking motions. His thumb is still over his bottom-lip in eureka.

“It’s not poisoned,” Peter countered, trying to suss out whatever conclusion the boy had arrived at because Stiles was too smart to believe the answer was that simple, that clear.

As if he was aware of Peter’s thoughts, he shakes his head. “Only water, no food. No outside contact, no light--”

“They want us to _starve_ ,” Peter finishes, a touch of awe at both Stiles’ genius and the depraved design of their plan. He presses a hand to the stone wall of their prison to double-check, although he already knows the answer. “But no hecatolite…”

Stiles’ laugh is brittle and something about the look in his eyes makes Peter’s hair stand up. His wolf reminds him that the Nogitsune was not that long ago and he’s very aware of how evil finds a way to linger. “That wouldn’t nearly be interesting enough for them--it’s already happened. Tell me, Peter, how do you make an abomination into more of an abomination?”

Hearing the pseudo-riddle makes his teeth ache but only a fool would expend the energy on a show of domination when it’s not needed, when he needs to conserve himself. “How?” he asks blandly.

Stiles’ teeth are bright enough that the darkness surrounding them makes his lips look like blood. “When you give it no food but plenty to eat.”

He takes a sharp breath through his nose. “A wendigo,” falls out of his mouth, before he corrects himself. “An _alpha_ wendigo.”

Stiles slumps back, head hitting the wall, even as he curls his arms tighter around himself and the tension in the air drops. Peter isn’t too ashamed to admit to feeling no small amount of relief. “It’s been two days, Peter, at best we can last two weeks like this-- _if_ they keep giving us the same amount of water and that’s just factoring my human metabolism rate,” His eyes flicker over to meet Peter’s. “It’s...it’s less for you.”

Two days stuck together as each other’s only company in darkness and silence shouldn’t make him so susceptible to fond warmth blossoming in his chest at, really, the lowest possible amount of concern but to be even considered in Stiles’ calculations does just that. He supposes it has to do with his wolf already having a soft spot for the boy to begin with and the fact that even he isn’t strong enough to survive as an omega, which he has been in all but name under McCall’s leadership.

Normally, he’d be his usual charming self because smarmy asshole really works its way under others’ skins and exasperation is really one of his favourite scents--he’s never been what one might call a ‘good person’--but there’s no time for that. There’s also the unavoidable fact that Stiles may be the only person who can save them from this mess, the only person who would care to save _him_.

He sighs. “How much?”

Stiles jerks. “Wha-?”

“How much time do I have, Stiles?”

His thumb returns to rubbing his lip raw. Peter blames the lack of other stimuli for why the motion is so engrossing. “It depends--no, don’t look at me like that, it totally does!--on how strong your connection is to the pack.”

Peter closes his eyes. “Let’s say I’m an omega...for practical purposes,”

“ _Peter_ ,” Stiles starts, way too soft, and Peter flashes his eyes at him. He huffs but reverts to facts. “Then let’s say about a week, including these two days...for practical purposes.”

A week. Well, according to Stiles, technically five more days. How...unfortunate. All this work he did to survive, to _live_ , and he’s going to starve to fuel some other psychopaths’ plan. At least he won’t burn to death again.

“I suppose that means you’re going to be the wendigo,” he says, mouth running off before his mind is aware of what he’s saying. He stiffens as soon as he does, because that is the exactly the kind of snark he was aiming to avoid, but Stiles squawks like they’re not talking about morbid shit and, instead, just general teenager shit.

“Dude! You’re the zombie-wolf, you should be the wendigo.”

“Well, then, I better get started snacking,” He pulls Stiles’ arm out to his lips and nibbles at his wrist with covered teeth like he used to with his younger nieces and nephews. Stiles doesn’t react like his nieces and nephews do. His heartbeat skyrockets and the unmistakable musky scent of want covers their small space like a weighted blanket. He lets go even as his eyebrows raise.

“Oh,” he says and he can’t help the way his mouth naturally infuses the word with an excess of smug realization. He doesn’t have to see Stiles to know the boy is scowling; his musky scent has soured with bitter resignation although it makes his overall scent smell like burnt almonds, which Peter doesn’t find unpleasant at all. “I guess you want to be eaten after all.”

“Peter,” Stiles snaps in what humans consider to be a growl. He backs off--figuratively, of course--with a hum low in his throat. Stiles drops his shoulders at the sound.

“Don’t worry, Stiles, I’m sure the ‘True Alpha’ will find us before you begin to look appetizing.”

Stiles glances over at him like he can hear the lie in his heartbeat. The hunger has already set in and Stiles has always looked appetizing--though, usually in a different way--but he’d die before it came to that. After all, if Scott can become a True Alpha, he’s more than sure Stiles can find a way to cure his future wendigo affliction.

“Thanks, Peter. That’s oddly reassuring,” he drawls, but his scent gives him away. Sunflowers and petrichor, what a rare smell these days and so very delicious.

He shifts closer to Stiles, nuzzling into the negative space between them because it’s much too soon for his pride to give in to actually touching--scent-marking--this boy, no matter how tempting, and he wonders if Stiles can get a glimpse of what he must smell like right now. If he would even know what ivory and vanilla means.

Day three brings an unlucky surprize. Peter notices it first because he has better “night-vision”.

“They halved our water,” he rasps. His mouth goes sticky with his body’s urge to produce saliva, to encourage him to quench the drought in him, and now he’s so thirsty it feels like he’s in a coma all over again. This time, his body is burnt up inside out from dehydration; his cells exsanguinating at the same speed as they regenerate and it stings like the sparks of gunpowder off fireworks.

Stiles goes silent again. Where Peter burns like a fever grips him in his soul, Stiles is still and cold like what little water he has inside him has compressed and frozen in his heart. A whine builds up in his throat, barely stopped by his tongue, and Stiles jerks, blinking back into awareness.

“They’re forcing our hand, Peter,” his voice quivers because his whole body seems to be shaking. Peter caves and wraps himself around the boy. He’s not sure who it comforts more.

“I won’t let that happen,” He swallows down the fear that déjà vécu brings. “Stiles, we’ll find a way.”

“I want my dad,” Stiles mumbles into his chest, heart pounding with anxiety because his body refuses to waste saline for tears. “I can’t--I want my dad.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he soothes, or at least attempts to while blinking back the hurt in his own eyes. “It’s okay. I’m going to make it all better, I promise.”


	2. Playing Games

After their brief moment of succumbing to despair and subsequent recovery from the near panic attack Stiles had, they decide to play a--very long and drawn out--drinking game by taking the tiniest possible sips as shots to Never-Have-I-Ever. Because Stiles is still very much a child who never had anyone close enough and yet distant enough to not know everything about them already to play with. That and because their sense of humor is so dry and macabre that the juxtaposition is actually extremely hilarious.

“Never have I ever had a crush on one of my teachers--or professors.”

Peter rolls his eyes but takes the jar and tongues the rim to fake a swallow to the tune of Stiles’ surprized guffaws. He’s maybe had five actual sips to Stiles’ eight because he made up his mind to save this child probably since the beginning of their time here if he’s being honest. Not that he believes in it exactly, but he thinks sacrificing his life for Stiles might counter some of the bad he’s done--at least it would give him enough points to be missed when he’s gone. Hopefully.

“No way, you?”

“Believe it or not, but I once was a teenager, too. And in my day, the teachers weren’t all secret Darachs or insane.”

“Yeah, but…” his hand waves up and down. “You’re _you_.”

Amusement rises in him like champagne bubbles. “ _Again_ , I once was a teenager, too, all gawky and long-limbed. In fact, I probably resembled someone a lot like you...except I was a basketball star.”

“Heathen!” Stiles shouts and Peter throws back his head and laughs until it hurts. The room must smell like a vanilla chai now, even to human noses.

“I thought werewolves couldn’t get headaches,” Stiles muses, his good humor muted. Peter sighs and drops the hand that was massaging his head.

“I suppose...that would probably be because of the dehydration,” he drawls, waiting for the reprimand.

Stiles surprizes him by slinking closer. “Here,” he says, even quieter than before, pulling Peter’s right hand to his chest. Peter swallows as Stiles rubs all the points of his palm and fingers, pinching his way slowly down to the space of flesh between thumb and forefinger. There, they stay and squeeze until his hand goes so warm that it must have been collecting his blood. He smells spiced chocolate and apple cider before he recognizes the heat low in his gut for what it is.

“It’s not as good as your wolfy pain-drain,” Stiles’ words float through his head like warm caramel. “But it gets the job done...for headaches, at least.”

Stiles' fingers draw away slowly--reluctantly?--but Peter instinctively snatches them back.

“Stiles, you’re--” So many possible answers drift to his tongue but none of them quite fit the way he desires them to. Stiles grins anyway.

“I know. Let’s nap the rest of the headache away. We can finish the water when we wake up after. Everyone knows you’re thirstiest right after waking up, especially if you wake up in the evening,” he babbles, pulling Peter into his arms in the corner furthest from the door that keeps them locked in. He continues to babble nonsense that isn’t quite nonsense like Peter needs to be comforted by the normalcy--he does, but he’ll never admit that--until Stiles falls asleep. Peter’s wolf is lulled by the contact and his brief headache actually drained him, but he spies shadows watching them and he’s no longer sleepy.

He curls Stiles protectively against him, lips in a soundless snarl because like hell will he risk waking Stiles, not when the poor boy has a hard time as it is falling asleep.

‘I’ll hunt you down’ he tries to project. ‘We’ll find a way and I’ll _kill_ you for putting him through this.’

Nothing, and then the shadow passes and there’s even less water. He sighs and forces himself to look away from the taunting jar, tells his brain to stop its calculations. He’ll sleep now, enjoy the temporary oblivion while he can, and when they wake he’ll convince Stiles that it’s time to eat.

~*~*~

“Stiles!” Scott steps forward, half-shifted and looking like he wants to forcibly separate them--by putting him in a grave if necessary. Stiles glares at his supposed best friend, fingers gaining strength as they dig further into Peter’s arms and lifts his head--eyes still staring Scott down--so Peter can fit his nose there perfectly. Peter’s wolf howls with glee and he snuffles Stiles’ neck with obvious relish. Ivory and chalk fill the room so much and so suddenly that Derek rolls his eyes nearly out of his head--far used to the scent and what it signifies--but Scott snarls at the display.

“ _Stiles_!” he tries again, the rumbles of an Alpha roar waiting to explode in his tone. “You need to stay away from him.”

Peter’s eyes flash--the icy silver-blue they’ve turned into since their imprisonment--and he growls. Stiles cocks his head, going predator-still in a way that unsettles their company for more than one reason. Scott’s shoulders tense--his wolf bristling at the clear threat in his territory--but he keeps his spot--the human in him resisting to harm pack, no matter how strained their bonds are now. The other supernatural members of the pack shift uncomfortably at their Alpha’s display, rearranging themselves into a defensive formation subconsciously--preparing themselves for an attack on Scott’s word. Peter knows the faint movements aren’t lost on Stiles.

“Why?” Stiles asks, tasting the word as if he’s confused. Peter knows he’s not. He smells like almonds and firewood, not ink. “I thought you said we were cool after the Nogitsune, so why now do you want me to die?”

“Don’t twist his words like that,” Lydia snaps from a far corner, eyes wide like she’s gearing for a scream but uncertain of whose. “You know what he means.”

“No, we don’t,” Peter and Stiles say as one. Scott takes a step back now and Derek lets his claws free, inching towards the Alpha to cover his flank. They know what everyone is thinking and it hurts (Stiles) as much as it amuses (Peter) them.

“Did you actually talk to Deaton?” Peter asks her, the hint of a snarl in his words. He can smell how thick their determination lays over this place, over Stiles, and he can’t help but react to it even though he knows staying calm is better for their chances--for Stiles.

Stiles tilts his head in acknowledgment of what he left unspoken. “Not that we trust the Druid. ‘Course, you don’t ever listen to Peter unless there’s literally no other option and you guys don’t trust my judgment--not really, not anymore.”

Stiles’ scent flares with smoked wood and summer heat--not that Peter can blame him--but he slips his fingers around Stiles’ wrist and squeezes, anchoring him, reminding him to stay calm, to keep them both level-headed.

Of course, Scott didn’t get that memo and unintentionally antagonizes them. “Deaton said you guys became wendigos--was that a lie?”

Oh, he’s so sincere, so earnest, Peter just wants to sink his fangs into his neck and eat him up. The Alpha even shifts back to human like he’s already anticipating Stiles to refute Deaton and make everything okay again--as if everything was okay before they were taken and tortured right under their noses.

Their hunger is still so close to the surface--starved by their righteous leader’s morals so soon after their first starvation--and Peter’s twisted and bitter amusement isn’t helping. He knows it’s present in the way Stiles slowly smirks, the way he allows his fangs to show and flash his own silvery-white eyes to startle the disbelievers. Kira--far too much like Scott in this one way--gasps, Malia and Derek--most in tune to their instincts--growl, Lydia pales and falls back in a chair; but Scott, his eyes harden with a tinge of red, but he stands firm. 

Stiles chuckles darkly. “Oh, no, Scotty. That is _very_ much true.”

“But there’s more to it than that,” Peter continues, losing himself in the pleasure of mind games. He always liked to play with his food before he ate. He takes a deep inhale of Stiles and calmly meets Scott’s gaze. “Our time together in that hole, well, I guess you could say it _bonded_ us.”

“You _what_?” Derek roars. Scott wouldn’t understand the nuances of mating, but Derek--who was Born, not Bitten, who was raised in a family with a long history of lycanthropy--would and Scott’s confusion makes Derek’s indignation all the sweeter.

His nephew actually manages to surprize him in his speed and ferocity enough to be put in a chokehold that he can’t break on his own, not while he’s still recovering, while he’s still so hungry. 

“He’s a _child_!” Derek spits at him. Peter doesn’t have the energy to correct him. No matter; Stiles does it for him.

With a nearly instantaneous twist of Derek’s wrist and shove to knock him off-balance, Stiles twirls his elbow into the hollow of Derek’s throat. Winded, he uses his own move against him, nails digging into Derek’s neck as he slams the werewolf into the floor. He lets out his own roar--less a creature of the night and more like a bird of prey screech--so powerful in Derek’s face that his nephew submits and reverts to human form.

“Try it, I dare you,” he warns both Malia and Kira--who were edging around to surprize him from behind--without looking away from Derek. It’s oddly arousing.

“You didn’t want the Bite!” Lydia speaks up. Peter and Stiles, intrigued by her nonsequitur, snap to look at her in the same motion with the same expression and she flinches, losing some of her nerve. “Scott-Scott told me what _he_ did.”

“And you think I wanted _this_?” he sneers.

For all her fear, she raises an eyebrow in a perfect semblance of composure. “It doesn’t look like you’re hating it exactly, no.”

Stiles finally frees Derek from his hold, gasping breaths background noise for everyone. “Oh, because I can roll with the punches and adapt, you mean?” He advances towards her in a way that can only be called stalking. “None of you ever asked _me_ what happened and now you want to judge us for what was beyond our control? We did what we had to do to survive because that’s what _we do_!”

Scott jumps in between his line of sight with Lydia, a protective growl startling Stiles and Peter. They blink but Stiles is the one to speak. “Scott, it’s still me in here--”

“Is it, though?” Lydia says sharply, no tremor present in her voice even though her hands shake. Peter can’t help but growl at her accusation. She takes a deep breath and continues, “Look, I’m not saying you wanted to turn into a wendigo, much less that you should be blamed for surviving no matter the cost. But I think you should take a hard look at what you sound like and what you’re doing right now because, to me, it seems like someone, or something, might be influencing your choices.”

Stiles--for all that he has indeed rolled with the punches and adapted to his new nature--still can’t stop the flinch at her implication. It’s still his greatest fear. And to weaponize it for the purposes of guilt-tripping Stiles into doing what they want--

Peter’s answering growl ratchets up in intensity, shaking his whole body. He watches Stiles shiver in response and shake off the repugnant chlorine that had infected his scent. “I’m more me now than I ever was,” Stiles eventually says, jutting his chin out.

“And you don’t hear how that’s maybe not a good thing?” Scott questions softly, still doggedly covering Lydia. Protecting her from them like they would ever actually hurt her. “Stiles, you’re a wendigo now. You have to eat people to live--that makes you a killer by definition, and you say you’re more you?”

Peter catches Stiles’ eye and his boy nods. They take a step back, growls and partial shift fading as they make their way toward the door.

“You know what, Scott? We don’t have to explain ourself to you, especially since it’s clear none of you want to listen.”

Scott stops them with a hand on Stiles’ wrist just before they finish crossing over. His eyes have that puppy-sadness in them. “If either of you takes a human life...you know I’ll have to do something about it, right?”

Stiles jerks his hand free, with less ease than he expected. “Be seeing you then, Alpha McCall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I've decided Liam doesn't exist in this timeline (yet). Also, I don't really know what powers the Dread Doctors have nor why they bother Beacon Hills in canon, but in here they're kinda mystical and super into "interesting" experiments on supernatural beings.
> 
> There is a reason why the McCall pack is treating Peter (and by extension, Stiles) like this and you'd be right if you said it has to do with Deaton. Next chapter starts getting into the meat of things (pun intended).


	3. Time To Eat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the year-long hiatus! Thanks to everyone who commented and kudos'ed here and on other works!
> 
> I struggled with this part because of all the lore/Peter backstory I decided to put in, and also because now we begin some more graphic violence and overt cannibalism and I didn't know how to toe the line between descriptive and _actual serial killer_. So head's up, it's gonna get bloody from here on out ~~because I like my meat rare.~~
> 
> Actual specific trigger warning: discussion of cannibalism, self-maiming, act of cannibalism, mentions of past torture, suggested attraction to a possible minor/age gap (I don't write Stiles as underage here, but he is still under twenty-one and Peter is at least thirty-something).

Despite his plans, his body is weak and Stiles wakes up before him. His pack bonds--more like flimsy strings connecting him to McCall and Derek in only the barest sense--are stretched so thin between the imposed isolation within the group his previous behaviour earned him and the current literal isolation their hell-hole provides, that he’s impressed he’s anywhere near sane at all still. Even his anchor and Stiles--who’s fast becoming a replacement anchor anyway--isn’t enough to replace the mental and physical strength being part of a real pack provides. There’s a reason omegas go feral so quickly and so violently.

There’s a reason why he’ll be the first to die of starvation, even compared to a human.

There is nothing, then the niggling sense that he needs to do something, and he startles awake with a swallowed gasp. His eyes take a minute to adjust, swimming until shapes form something recognizable and he can distinguish between the various shades of grey. Blinking, he glances first to his right--even though he can tell from the cooling linger of body heat that Stiles is no longer there--and then, inwardly sighing, he glances over to where their jar is. Where Stiles has lifted the container to eye-level and swirls its contents until he can get an accurate measure of how much is in it either by ear or eye.

“Stiles,” he starts, already exhausted by the argument they’ve yet to have.

“I won’t do it,” Stiles counters immediately, as expected, dropping the jar.

“You have to, because you have to _survive_.”

“I won’t!” Stiles snaps and then curls over his stomach with a bitten-off moan. Alarm races through Peter and he scrambles to his side as quick as he can.

“Stiles, _Stiles_! What did you do?” He frantically checks him over, but there’s no scent of blood, just mistletoe and anemone. It’s repulsive, makes his wolf think of danger, but he can’t bring himself to so much as back away. He wants to be near the boy, even when he assaults his nose like this.

Suddenly the spasms of pain ceases and the scent fades to the background. Stiles is still rocking, shaking in his arms, sweat forming on the top of his brow as he looks almost blankly up at Peter. He licks his lips and Peter can almost hear how his tongue catches and drags over the cracks in his lip. “Peter,” he croaks. “It hurts.”

“So eat,” he chuckles without humor. “Trust me, it’s not like I’m going to last much longer anyway. At least I’ll be put to good use.”

“Don’t say that,” Stiles whispered, shaking his head faintly. “How can you say that?”

Peter swallows, choosing his words carefully. “I know I’m not the most… _moral_ of characters, certainly no _Scott_ , but I think you know very well who he’d want to come out of here alive.”

“No, not--!” He attempts an exasperated groan, but it’s still little breathy. “You deserve to survive too, you idiot creeper-wolf.”

Oh. Well, he wasn’t expecting _that_ \--wasn’t expecting Stiles to feel the same way about him like they had an actual official working pack bond. But then, the boy was just so easy to underestimate. Half the utter destruction from the Nogitsune came from that exact reason. He should know better. He can only hope the effects from being in this hellhole excuses his lapse.

“I’m not--” Stiles cut himself off, looking at his hands in his lap. Peter has the urge to squeeze those hands and he doesn’t restrain himself. Stiles glances at him but he squeezes back. “If you want me to eat, then you’re going to have to eat too.”

Peter eyes him as much as he possibly can with his weakening eyesight and measures the boy. Stubborn, always so determined to do the right thing, whatever he decided the right thing was. Like Peter, Stiles was a little more gray than the others, especially after his recent possession. Or rather, he cared less about the consequences of voicing those thoughts now that he truly understands the mind of the monsters they’re up against. And it’s begun to show.

Peter was here first, if only briefly before Stiles was tossed in a few hours later. And he, even then, smelt singularly of himself--tired, hurt, confused, but like no one but himself. Even Peter smelt somewhat of Derek. Though, that was a little because they were related and a lot because Peter liked to annoy his nephew by crashing at his place at inconvenient times--which, according to Derek, was always.

But, if Stiles has decided that Peter was worth it, then there was likely no changing his mind. Especially not with facts and logic; for being the pack’s so-called researcher, he certainly was ruled by his heart. And if there was a chance to prolong his life--to survive this...well, no one has ever accused Peter of being too selfless.

“Very well,” he acquiesces. “Would you like a slice of round-eye or a cut of the shank for your meat selection tonight? Or, perhaps, the brisket is more to your liking.”

Stiles scrunches his nose. “Don’t do that. Don’t _normalize_ it.”

“Stiles, nothing I do or say now is going to change the fact that you had to eat my flesh to survive.”

“Why you?”

Stiles says it only to be contrary--he knows that--but Peter levels him with a look regardless. “Come now, you’re smarter than that.”

“Yeah, but you’re already in a weakened state. The strain of healing is only going to exacerbate--”

“My healing is still superior to yours simply because my body is designed to recover from serious wounds--”

“But if we’re smart about how we do this and if we-if we take turns, then--”

“I can’t risk you!” Peter snaps, not quite yelling but louder than he has ever been while captive here. He swallows, and then softer, slower, “I won’t, Stiles. Worst case scenario, you survive and become a wendigo. Best case scenario...well, we both die and you don’t have to live with the trauma of what eating me has done to you. So...do you want round or shank?”

Stiles is a silent mass, huddled into Peter still. Neither had moved during their brief argument, in the same position as when he moved to comfort Stiles after his hunger attack. His hand was still moving absently in rubbing motions over his stomach as he thought it over--likely coming to terms with his decision.

He sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. “You know, I’ve always been a rib-eye man, myself.”

Peter laughed drolly, tousling his hair and pushing him--gently, oh so gently, as if he even had the strength to be truly rough if he desired it--by the side of his head away from him in jest. “You’re not nearly endearing enough to deserve such a choice cut of meat.”

Stiles chuckles faintly, one hand reaching up to comb his hair back to a presentable--well, given their accommodations, perhaps it would be more accurate to say ‘less of a mess’--state. His other hand remains where it is, giving his stomach consoling pats. Peter elects to ignore it.

Instead, he considers his right hand, fingers in particular, flexing them and testing their strength and resolve. Not only does he have to carve his own flesh up like serving a Thanksgiving dinner for two, but he is well aware of the fact that his strength has dwindled so severely that even drawing his claws forth is an effort. He knows part of it is because he is cut off from direct moonlight and hasn’t shifted any more than necessary--meaning, once, aside from the occasional flash of eyes--since he’s been in here. It was a big risk in his condition.

Werewolves don’t actually have such a deeply intimate relationship to the moon and its phases the way folklore has romanticized. That’s not to say that there isn’t any connection at all--in fact, many of the more traditional and generally long-standing packs emphasize the connection that they _do_ have. They turn it into something to be revered, if not worshiped in its own way. When the Hales were in their prime, they actually fell along those lines of thinking; Peter generally thought it a little too cult-y for his particular taste, but that didn’t mean he didn’t respect or acknowledge his tie to the moon.

Simply put, the moon is a wolf’s biggest anchor because she is the provider of their powers--or, so legend says. Peter’s never been able to track down a credible source for the origin of lycanthropy--aside from the obvious evolution of a mutation theory--but even he can understand why the myth might have started. It’s simple enough to work; while it is more accurate to say she experiences phases instead of shifts, the moon does have a transformation of her own to go through and the idea that she influences behavior has been around forever. ‘Lunatic’ actually gets it derivation from such thoughts. Combine the two and voila--crazy mad men who transform into wolves to feast on unsuspecting innocents as all such monsters do.

But Peter’s never been truly satisfied with either explanation. There were more nuances to lycanthropy than a hairy mad man--though true in a sense for many of them--and it was more mystical than mutation implies. Moonlight has powers--the worm moon’s light when paired with the proper ritual brought him back to life after all--but even werewolves don’t fully realize how much the moon affects them until it’s gone. Or rather, all his intellectual knowledge and awareness about the moon and her effects on werewolves did not prepare him for actually experiencing the _lack_ of it. 

For him, feeling such an absence of the moon and a disconnect from his wolf, meant that it was much more difficult for him to shift. Coupled with the fact that he hasn’t shifted at all since he’s been here, his pathways have broken down from disuse and compounded the difficulty in shifting. Of course, Peter had already considered this from the moment he was locked in here and knew there was another option. But his only other choice--to shift continually in defiance of the moon and his current state--would guarantee him turning feral and likely killing the both of them much sooner than starvation. His wolf would go mad with confusion and the feeling of weakness without the moon to guide him and pack bonds to sustain his link to humanity. And then, confused and feral, the wolf would take over his body and he would be lost to instincts; instincts whose only goal was to keep him alive and safe from threats--threats that surround him currently. With no safety in sight, the wolf would lash out at everything and everyone until he was ruined by his own doing. While he was loathe to throw away his life like that, there was something appealing about spitefully ruining the Doctors’ plan--but that was before Stiles appeared. Obviously, that choice could never happen.

Which is how he ended up here, staring at his own hand and attempting to prepare for the effort it would take to shift enough to bring his claws out. He shuts his eyes and concentrates, reaching down deep to find his wolf again. He needs only to tap into his dormant healing ability and pop his claws. At full strength, his healing would only ever stop or slow if he desired it and his claws would appear instantaneously. Now, he feels every cell in his body strain to strengthen and lengthen his nails enough to--

“You know, I’ve always wondered how that worked. I mean, it kinda looks like Wolverine except I’m pretty sure it’s not adamantium-covered bone popping out because that doesn’t make any sense, but it’s just as ridiculous to think that you guys can do all that damage from just keratin.”

Peter huffs, cracking one eye open to glare at the little blabbermouth. Based on the boy’s cheeky grin, he doesn’t seem cowed at all. Opening the other eye, he shakes his hand out--more for something to do than from lingering phantom pains. “If you knew all that, then you should know that nails are made from _alpha_ -keratin and--”

“Same stuff that makes hooves and horns and all that in other animals, right, right. I remember now,” he says, grin widening.

Peter lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t call him out on it. Some small part of him feels less tense now but today has been vulnerable enough without the transparency of sincerity. “If you are done interrupting me with your inane chattering, I _do_ require concentration.”

Stiles mimes zipping his lips. Peter exhales again.

His brain is settled now, more focused and less ruminating and he is able to reach his wolf. Their bond is still strong despite how weak they are--a testament to how well he knows himself and his level of control--but it’s still an effort to bring it to the surface. He feels every moment of the shift; it is more painful than it has any right to be--all he is attempting is to flick his claws into existence but they’re stubbornly resisting him. Instead, it’s more like an ooze. He feels the pull of his skin around his nail beds contracting like a wave cresting over land; pushing out barely a centimeter of sharpened nails and then pulling back to push more out to get to the desired length. The nails’ slow appearance is like several bee stings all at once followed by a mosquito bite that he can’t itch. It’s by no means the most agonizing pain he’s been through but it is certainly irritating and annoying to experience exactly how devastating the effects of their stay affects him. And while the blow to his pride does smart--as does much about their circumstance here--what packs a more painful punch is the utter lack of an emotional response any of this evokes from him. 

Sure, there is a sense of mourning and dread for the inevitable near future of his demise, but even that is background noise to the static emptiness in his soul. He hasn’t felt this lost and out of control since the fire and its aftermath. At least when he was rampaging with revenge there was always some drive in him that he could focus on to clear out everything else; revenge would power through everything that could hold him back, those pesky emotions like grief and regret, uncertainty and pain. If nothing else, Peter could always count on his will to survive overcoming all obstacles Beacon Hills could ever design to take him out. It was his most defining feature. Now, though, the static is entrenched so deep within him that he can sense his strong will transform itself into the desire to see _Stiles_ live, especially if it came at the expense of his own life. It would be terrifying if he could be bothered to feel anything so selfish and pointless.

He gives a brief--oh so very brief--passing moment to wonder if this is how McCall must feel all the time, righteous thoughts and altruistic moral decisions that factor in others over self.

He knows his claws have reached the length they normally would without having to check with his vision. The annoying craving to scratch an invisible itch fades away but the stinging merely settles into a throbbing numbness. He sighs, but it’s likely the best he can do.

He takes another moment to consider his options. The best tasting meat is usually close to the ribs, but that would hurt like a bitch to heal and that is also assuming he wouldn’t lose too much blood too quickly. There’s not a lot that he can get to or out of his shoulders and arms, and it also would complicate their next meal if he accidentally shreds a tendon to his forearm or wrist. But, perhaps, starting slow would be a good way to go to introduce Stiles to cannibalism.

“Thighs have some of the most calories,” Stiles mutters, cutting into his thoughts. He’s very intentionally not watching Peter anymore. “It’s also better to start there since it’ll be the first part of your body to heal if-if we need to run suddenly. I can’t...I can’t carry you and fight, but if you can walk...there’s at least a chance…”

Peter reaches out, careful with his claws since he can’t put them away, and holds Stiles’ face in a caress. “I would rather die than leave you here, sweetheart. You have to know that.”

Stiles swallows, nodding slightly and still avoiding Peter’s eyes. Peter leans in to press a kiss to his forehead and Stiles does something that sounds like a hiccup and a laugh. “Now, then, I believe I heard a request for a round cut?”

He digs into the fleshiest part of his left thigh, fangs immediately dripping into his lips to stop himself from an automatic howl of pain. His eyes flash wildly, wolf inside desperately trying to heal while confused that they are the source of their own pain, and he grunts under the effort of suppressing it. On the next inhale, he twists his claws slowly and scoops out the meat closest to his femur. It’s been a long time since his biology classes but he thinks that probably the safest muscle. He can’t bring himself to look and double-check.

He’s out of breath by the time he snaps his tendons--like mini fires bursting inside his bones--and can pull the flesh free. His hand down to the middle of his forearm is drenched in his own blood, still trickling down to his elbow. The pain courses with every heartbeat and instinctive tears prick at the corner of his eyes but he reminds himself that he’s had worse. He’s been electrified, burned alive, tortured for weeks...and yet, this is still some of the worst pain he’s endured. He hopes the hefty weight he holds makes up for it.

“Stiles...eat.” Peter manages to eek out in between a sudden spell of dizziness--blood loss, he needs to start the healing process before it gets too late.

Stiles moves--a shudder, a shake of the head, unstoppable tremors, Peter can’t really tell. “I don’t...Peter, I _can’t_ ,” he whines.

“I’ll guide you. Come here, sweetheart.” His vision blurs as he forces his body to stitch itself back together enough to stop bleeding out. The muscle will take much longer to regrow, if it does at all, but at least he won’t have a gaping hole in his body just tempting infection and disease to ravage him too.

He feels Stiles press closer to him by the heat of his body. His ears are ringing too much to have heard any movement. He proffers his hand closer to where he can somewhat make out a face. “Plug your nose and take a bite keeping your tongue out of the way--you’ll just be distracted by the taste and we can’t have you gagging up the little supply we have.” He lets his lips twist into a small smirk but Stiles still hesitates.

His leg starts to ache less, at least enough for his vision to return and the ringing to dwindle, just as Stiles takes a tentative bite into the meat, chin brushing his fingers. His nose wrinkles violently, but he holds on, waiting. “Good, that’s great, Stiles. Bite all the way down, as far as you can, and then twist to one side. You need to let your bicuspids and canines shred the meat so you can chew enough to swallow quickly.”

Peter can feel the clench of Stiles’ jaw, the way he takes a steadying breath before jerking once, then again, until he rips free. The boy’s eyes are screwed tight as he chews three times before painfully swallowing. He gasps after, eyes wet when they reopen. Peter licks his lips vainly, as dry as both tongue and mouth are.

“Another. Take another bite, Stiles,” he cajoles.

“Peter. You need-you need to eat too.”

“Half. At least half, Stiles, eat at least half,” he begs, so desperate to see Stiles get something out of this. The boy closes his eyes, sighs, and then nods.

He returns again and Peter switches his hand so that Stiles can get a better angle. The second time is much easier. Stiles still takes a second before he bites in, but he has much more jaw strength powering his motion now that he knows what to expect. He can see the way his tongue deftly pushes his morsel to the side right away, watches his molars work to grind it down better this time before he swallows still with a slight grimace.

“One more,” he presses, voice raspy now. “Just one more small bite, please.”

Those eyes whip into a molten glare. “It’s your turn, Peter. _Eat_.”

Peter huffs; another idea popping into his head so he allows it. In one last bite, he tears into his own meat, letting muscle memory and the survival instincts of his wolf take over. He’s eaten raw flesh before on full moon nights when he allowed his wolf free reign, has picked out guts stuck in his teeth from half-remembered chases in the forest. Once or twice, when his parents were still alive, there would be rituals and festivals on full moon nights and other special occasions that encouraged a more natural connection to your inner wolf and the earth and the moon. He even celebrated his turn into maturity by eating a deer heart. So, the act of eating raw meat is nothing new. Still, there is a squirming inside of him that abhors the monstrosity of eating actual flesh, of hoping to prevent death where a better man might let himself starve. That this, plain and simple, is _wrong_.

He stamps down that line of thinking with a swallow that seals his fate. It doesn’t matter wrong or right now, either they will survive or they won’t. And he doesn’t particularly care what kind of non-person it makes him that he wishes they survive.

He sticks his tongue out at Stiles, both to prove that he actually ate it and to break the bleak atmosphere. Stiles snorts, a fragile grin on his face.

“One more treat, Stiles,” Peter calls out softly. He is rewarded with Stiles pressing up close against him, even though there is suspicion written in every line of his face. Peter extends his bloody hand, still tacky, and wiggles his fingers. Stiles curls his lips in disgust and Peter can’t help but laugh once.

“Some treat,” he mutters.

“How ungrateful. I’m doing you a favor, you know. There’s a few good elements in blood, namely iron and water--”

“You just want me to clean up after you, I see how it is.”

“Oh yes, you’ve caught me, I’m so terrible.” He rolls his eyes and it’s worth it to finally smell a trace of the ocean on Stiles.

“Okay, zombie-wolf,” Stiles says around a full grin. “Since you cooked the meal, I guess I’ll do the dishes.” 

He holds out his hand and Peter places his arm in his, lets Stiles pull him to his mouth and lick away his mess. His tongue is hot against the blood that has cooled off in the time that it took to eat and it makes his hair rise. It’s similar enough of an act to pack-grooming that Peter isn’t afraid of an unwanted bodily reaction--even though with the low-grade of pain and the concentration and energy he’s redirecting towards healing, he doesn’t think he can even respond that way if he wanted to. But there’s something about Stiles, about the focus and attention he applies to his task, about the way his blood-darkened mouth opens and stretches his beauty-marked skin--

“You know, it’s kinda weird,” Stiles speaks, face scrunching slightly as he starts working on his fingers now. Peter blinks twice. “But you almost taste kind of like...chocolate?”

Peter sucks in a breath, tensing, even though it puts a strain on his left thigh. “What?” It’s so quiet, he’s not sure Stiles hears him at all.

“Yeah, like the chocolate bars that people put something in, like a pepper or something else kinda hot--”

Peter jerks away, heart hammering, and he’s afraid Stiles somehow knows that too. “Okay, that’s enough clean--” He cuts himself off with a hiss, clutching his leg that’s decided to act up after he jarred it with his sudden motion.

“Peter! Are you okay?” Stiles hovers at his side, ocean smell cresting into oil. Peter reaches out to squeeze his hand, to draw on the strength of companionship--of pack--and Stiles grips him tight as if he could actually draw out the pain. Eventually, he rides out the worst of it and his wound is mostly healed on a surface level, but he is exhausted. He lets his head rest on Stiles’ shoulder while he breathes for a moment.

“Peter…” Stiles whispers, one hand still holding his and the other brushing his hair. It feels nice, like what pack should.

“It’s fine-- _I’m_ fine, Stiles,” he slurs out, turning to glance up at him. “Just need to rest now. We both should rest.”

Stiles says nothing. He rises to his feet, slowly helping Peter to his, and limping their way over to the corner that they’ve made into their bed. He helps Peter to the floor and that’s all he can remember before nothing but vague dreams and the sudden rush of consciousness. He opens his eyes, feels his wolf nudge him in the direction of the door. Peter checks Stiles first--always Stiles first now--but the boy is dead asleep, head on his chest and clinging to him. It’s sweet in the same way eating candy with a cavity is. He takes the time to nuzzle the top of his head before glancing at the door. At first, he can’t see anything that would make his wolf so agitated. But then his eyes drift towards the floor, towards where their jar--almost forgotten--is standing and he can’t help but growl even though there are no shadows about.

It’s full.


End file.
